


I'll Hold My Breath

by murdur



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Pre-Canon, Young Adults
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 07:23:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2842874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murdur/pseuds/murdur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki and Sif find that they each have what the other needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Hold My Breath

**Author's Note:**

  * For [silverducks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverducks/gifts).



> Happy holidays to you! I tried my best at a little stab of awkward alliances.

Deep in the winter, the realm came together to commemorate the Yuletide with food and song, making merry in the halls of the palace and the city below and beyond. This third day of the Yule feasting also served as a celebration and ceremony to honor the young men and women who had completed their studies and training in the art of warfare and pledged their loyalty to the crown. Earlier that afternoon, both Sif and Loki had stood before their tutors and Odin himself, honored for their high marks before being presented to the cheering realm with their peers.

Loki stood now on one of the many balconies outside of the feasting halls, his green cape billowing against his legs as he tried not to fidget in his formal attire of stiff leathers and metal, his hand absent mindedly drifting to touch his trouser pocket every so often as he looked over the glittering city below.

It was only a moment more before one of the gauzy curtains fluttering in the winter chill moved aside to allow Sif to duck through to join him. She was dressed now, out of her armor and leggings of the assembly, in a festive winter gown of deep blue. Its long skirts brushed against the marble and long sleeves fit against her strong arms, leaving only her face and throat bared from where the high collar parted elegantly, her dark hair pinned up in a graceful fashion.

He tried not to stare, wishing his heart wouldn’t stutter so. She was always lovely, but looked exceptionally radiant tonight. He wanted to tell her so, but held his heavy tongue.

“You came,” she smiled. She had confronted him in a flurry before the feast began, asking him to meet her here.

“Of course.” He nodded in her direction, unsure of her intentions and trying to steel his own.

“Your helmet,” she spoke of his newly bestowed gift from the All-father, although the design had been his. “An interesting choice. However are you going to fit through doorways with such extravagance?” 

He returned her smile. “And your sword? _Two_ blades, Sif? Compensating for something, are we?”

She laughed lightly.“I think I have demonstrated that I have no need to make up for any lacking skill. I have proven myself wholly, as have you.” Her voice dropped lower, more serious. “Which is why I asked you here. To thank you.”

 

Their alliance had started early that summer, not long after their tutors had began to mention the impending assessments that would test both battle knowledge and skill. Sif had cornered him outside of their history class one afternoon, placing her hand on his arm to pull him to an alcove.

“I need you,” she hissed. He raised his eyebrows at her, trying to hide the flutter her words brought to his stomach. “I need you to help me. You are the best in our division at history. I can’t seem to stay awake during lectures.”

“If you’re looking for a potion to help you stay awake, I’m sure an alchemist down at the market would be able to help.”

He made to walk away but she tightened her grip, pushing him back against the wall. “If I don’t do well in this course it could ruin everything. They won’t accept me into the ranks unless I score high in all areas. Tutor me, Loki. Please.”

It wasn’t like the Lady Sif to beg. He looked down at the hand holding him and a smile curled onto his face. “And what’s in it for me?”

“I’m the top of our class for combat.”

“And?”

“And you are definitely not.”

“My combat skills are perfectly adequate.”

“Loki, you could be _king_ someday. Leader of the Einhejar. Do you really think that bodes well for you, if your weaponry skills are only mediocre?”

She didn’t have to say it, but the intention was there, the comparison. Thor had graduated decades ago, but still the tutors made allusions to his outstanding battle skills, graduating top of his class, constantly.It felt as though not a day would go by without someone comparing Loki to his older brother. Bigger, stronger, better. They were both held to different standards than the rest of their peers. Sif the only woman in the program, she swore sometimes the old masters tried everything in their power to scare her out of it. And Loki, it was custom for all heirs to the crown to complete the rigorous training, and Loki was always standing in the shadow of Thor's feats of strength.

He straightened to his full height at that, looking utterly offended, and she knew she had him.

“Fine. You scratch my back I’ll scratch yours. Seems fair enough. When do we start?”

 

They spent nearly every free moment together after that, electing to meet not in the training rings that were constantly surrounded by other trainees, but a lengthy walk beyond the edge of the city to a large field that allowed them to be kept out of sight. Sif smuggled various blades and weapons as well as a few straw training dummies out to their meeting place over the course of the summer. They both knew that one of the rituals of their pending evaluations would be to show mastery of one weapon. Sif had been wielding anything that was even slightly elongated as a sword since she was old enough to walk and could easily best all in her class with a simple sword. Loki, however, appeared to have an aversion to weapons that depended upon blunt force.He was strong, but his true power lay in his whip-like quickness. He was decent enough with a staff, passable with a bow, and flat out refused the mace.

“Think of the blood spatter, Sif,” he had wrinkled his nose when she presented it one afternoon, smoothing down his leathers. She had grumbled about his daintiness, trying not to feel discouraged. Thoughtfully, she had pulled a dagger from her boot and dropped it into his palm

He had stared at it in distaste, obviously thinking of how close such a short blade would require him to get to his opponent, the potential for gore on his elegant hands. She rolled her eyes, pointing to the straw enemy across the field and directing him to _throw_ it.

He looked intrigued and followed her instructions, tossing the blade overhand and it landed with a dull whop into the thigh of the dummy. They both had pleased smiles. He tried to convince himself that it was just the thrill of success that he felt during these meeting that left him feeling giddy. Surely it had nothing to do with how Sif would stand behind him, making adjustments to his stance, his posture, his grip on her blade. Her long form pressed against his back, an arm wrapping to move his chest or his arm to better align with the target. Her breath on his neck, in his ear, encouraging and attentive. It was just the rush of battle lust that sent his heart skittering, he was sure.

Sif felt the rush of their meetings as well. Pleased at how well Loki had taken to the task, the way he looked so lithe and nimble as his confidence grew, coiling and springing his lean body into action. Her heart skipped sometimes when he turned his gaze to her, fiery and pleased and wanting, convincing herself that she was just responding to his call to battle.

Late into the fall, when the leaves began to flutter off of the trees and the afternoon light turned golden, Loki enchanted their straw targets to dart and sway around the field, Sif had easily cut them down as they lunged and danced with a confident smile on her face. Loki repaired her wounding blows and prepared for his turn, eight daggers lining his belt. On Sif’s decree, he had moved quickly, spinning and springing to release his weapons, expertly sticking each target, embedding daggers into their wheat filled heads, and necks, and hearts.

In a matter of only moments, he had cut down all of their enchanted enemies. He raised his arms in triumph, allowing a large smile to split his face. Sif whooped and lunged at him, wrapping her arms around his waist in delight. He had frozen, taken aback at the gesture, the warmth of her. 

She stayed there, with her cheek pressed to his chest and her strong arms about him, pulling away quickly when the gesture was not returned. Soon after she had gathered her sword and shield and mumbled something about meeting her mother for dinner before walking from their secret place. He remained where he was and replayed that moment in his mind, wishing that he could relive it, repair it, wrap his arms around her too. But he was a coward, after all.

 

When not in the field, he spent hours upon hours with her in one of the far corners of the expansive library. Sif was a difficult student and she tried his patience, unable to sit still, fidgeting and tapping and sighing. Each time he opened a large text in front of her or tried to lecture her about an important battle strategy that had turned the tides of some inter-realm skirmish millennia ago, she would look as though it physically pained her to sit still.

She groaned, rolling her face against the wood of the table after he corrected her, for the dozenth time that afternoon, on the order of Asgard’s wars. “My brain just cannot seem to care about all of this, Loki. How am I supposed to keep this all straight.”

“Maybe if you spent less time down at the taverns, drunkenly swinging your stein and signing mindless pub songs, your brain would-” he paused mid-sentence to contemplate, an idea striking. “That’s it!”

She rolled her face to peer up at him suspiciously. “What? You want to get a drink?”

“Your study skills certainly have the ability to drive me to drink, but no.” _Songs_ , he found, were the perfect way for Sif to retain all of the minute details of history. Mnemonics and rhymes and made up tunes. The bawdier and more absurd they were, the better. She particularly appreciated Loki’s rhyme to remember the many warlords of Vanaheim, a tune that involved accusations against Freyja riding Hildisvíni, her giant swine, that lewdly rhymed _boar_ with _sore_.

Sif had laughed fully, a hand coming to stifle the noise in her surprise. She had no idea learning could be so much fun. Loki had a sharp wit and she found herself enamored by his clever tongue. He was strict and demanding, he rolled his eyes often and sometimes had a temper, but overall he was patient with her and passionate about his studies. Any time she struggled with a new concept, he was quick to explain it in a new way, taking the time to illustrate it until she had mastered every point, praising her comprehension.

When the days grew shorter he quizzed her relentlessly, question and question about politics, economies, histories and relations. She battled back , sometimes pausing with a slight grin on her face to think through a rhyme about Thor and a goat to name all of Alfheim’s territories, but correctly answering all of his grueling questions. When she listed all 48 of Niflheim’s dignitaries without error Loki had cheered and leaned in his seat that faced hers.

“Yes!” He shouted proudly, one hand clasping her arm in surprise, the other hand landing against the side of her neck. “Brilliant, Sif!”

She had frozen then, stock-still and straight backed under his palms, trying and failing to look away from his lips that were suddenly so close. He had searched her face for a moment, looking for something and then pulled back quickly as if her skin burned him.

Loki had swept up his scrolls quickly after that and made some excuse to depart from the hall, leaving Sif sitting still frozen in her seat, a tingle under her skin from his touch, wishing she had leaned forward and done what she had thought about, often against her direct bidding, of doing for months now. But she was an idiot indeed.

 

She stood now, across from him on the wintry balcony and her hands twitched for a moment reaching forward as if to touch his arm, but she pulled them back to smooth her skirts. She appraised him in his extravagant outfit, thinking how he looked older, more refined than the boy with the ink stains on his fingers she’d spent the past seasons with, growing closer to. He looked like royalty. That thought burned in her gut strangely. Surely a prince of the realm would have no more time for a shieldmaiden, would probably turn his attention to the giggling women who batted their eyes when he passed. And yet, part of her hoped...She plunged a hand into hidden pocket in the spill of her gown, slowly retrieving a black box, long and slender, tied with a golden ribbon. “All of my many thanks.”

She presented it to him. He looked surprised but took it from her hands, plucking at the ribbon to open the box, revealing a long silver dagger, exquisitely crafted. A large, winding snake curved into an _"L"_  decorated the handle along with several, subtle emeralds. He delicately lifted it, feeling the weight and balance of it. Flipping it in his hand once, he smiled at her, touched.

“It is beautiful. Thank you, Sif.”

"Since you stole all of mine these past few months, I figured you ought to have one of your own.”

He didn’t point out that she had stolen most of the blades back, and that they were stolen from the armory in the first place but instead crouched down for a moment. “I know just the place for it. I picked this trick up from the most difficult woman I’ve ever encountered,” he smiled and slid the dagger into his boot, thinking of her. 

“Oh please,” she laughed and swatted his shoulder. “As if you weren’t equally as difficult.”

“Perhaps,” he allowed and stood. “Which is why I also have something for you. A token of thanks.” His hand flitted to his pocket to retrieve his own smaller box and he placed it into her palm.

Her heart jumped at the sight of it and she opened the hinged box carefully. Inside lay a necklace of sorts, with a long chain carrying the weight of what at first appeared to be a type of jewel, but upon closer inspection turned out to be a small vial filled with a swirling, coppery liquid that glinted in the moonlight.

“That’s..lovely, Loki.” Her voice was slightly confused, trying to keep the disappointment out of her voice, unsure what possessed him to gift her a useless bauble. Perhaps he did want a delicate maiden after all.

He saw her expression and his heart dropped but he pressed on. “I thought you might enjoy it, given your fondness for our little tune involving Fandral’s facial hair.”

Her brow wrinkled as she thought for a moment. That disgusting little rhyme related to dangerous plants and berries... “Olnox?” She looked at the color again and laughed. “Poison! You’ve given me poison to wear about my neck? You are perverse!”

He smiled at her delight, and reached forward to cover the hand that held the pendant, stepping closer. “There should be no question in anyone’s mind that you are just as deadly as you are beautiful, at all times.” She stopped laughing and looked up at him then, and swallowed. His cape brushed against her skirt in the winter wind.

“These past months have been surprisingly enjoyable,” his voice dropped low as he plucked the chain from her hand and leaned in, hooking the clasp around the back of her neck.

“Is it such a surprise?” she murmured her heart hammering at the nearness of him, one hand falling to his chest, curling at his leather.

It was a surprise, how each day he had fallen deeper in love with her, often against his own will. A shock that he wished for their lessons to continue, to have the chance to make her laugh, for her to put her hands on his own. The wonder he felt in how desperate he was to be in her presence, in her good graces. It was bewildering that he sometimes seemed to see the affection and warmth he felt for her mirrored in her own gaze.

Surely she had felt it too. The electricity in their contact, the way each torturous touch lingered, how every smile and gaze felt like a sear against his heart.

He pulled back to look into her eyes, and saw the truth of it all there. “Yes,” he whispered his lips only a hair's breadth away from her own.

“Yes,” she responded and closed the distance, her lips soft, and wrapping her arms around him in the way he had ruined before. He did not miss his chance this time, and took her face into his hands, and kissed her thoroughly, just the way he’d imagined again and again, the sound of the festivities and everything beyond Sif disappearing in that moment.

“Finally,” she whispered against his lips when they withdrew and he grinned easily. “Although,” she ran one hand down the metal at his chest and looked playfully up at him through her lashes. “I think you are capable of better, perhaps with some practice?”

He grinned wickedly and pushed his hands into her hair. “Tutor me, my lady. Please.”

He kissed her again, long and happy.


End file.
